


Underneath, it stirs

by tari_roo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S4, Dean has a cast iron stomach. He can eat anything and occasionally Sam has to live with the noxious consequences. When hunting a monster after the eldest children in town, Dean goes down with a stomach bug. Goes down hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath, it stirs

Underneath, it stirs

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG13/R (Gen)

Summary:  S4, Dean has a cast iron stomach. He can eat anything and occasionally Sam has to live with the noxious consequences. When hunting a monster after the eldest children in town, Dean goes down with a stomach bug. Goes down hard.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. I have a thing for Dean as a cowboy – I make no apologies  J Prompt fic for hoodie_time Dean-focused_hurt/comfort

Spoilers: Season 4 or 5, non specific for those season, but mentions of Hell.

Prompt:

Early-ish S4. Gen. There's something hunting first-born sons and the guys decide to go and hunt it because... duh... that's what they do. Only they don't figure out the creature/fugly/witch/whatever's M/O before it latches onto Dean. Dean, who hasn't been eating, hasn't been sleeping, and is still a wreck over his decades in Hell goes down fast and hard.   
  
Symptoms can be anything but preferably entailing some/all of the following: crazy-high fever, night sweats, sweating, shivering, peeing pure blood, hard distended stomach, excruciating cramps, muscle spasms, seizures, being unable to keep anything down, etc. Pretty much go crazy (anything up to and including the kitchen sink is included -- but preferably stuff involving the stomach and plumbing) and make Dean weak beyond belief. As in to the point where he vocally wants to die.  
  
Sam's the one who has to hunt and end the fugly while taking care of Dean. Keep the guys IC please -- no wooby-ing, hand-holding, descending into sap, etc.

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Sharing the same space 24/7 made you immune to certain things. Finding your brother’s socks in your duffle. Odd smells in the bathroom. Snoring. Sharing the same space 24/7 also made certain things not just the straw that broke the camel, but the shit load of bricks that crushed it. Finding your freshly laundered socks in the bathroom having been co-opted into facecloth service. Foul, nose hair burning taco-aftermath bathrooms. Questionable sticky substances on your laptop.

Some things swung on the pendulum between irritate and ignore dependent on mood, circumstances and Dean’s delight in tormenting Sam. Wet towels. No hot water. Locking Sam out accidently on purpose.

After Dean rose from the dead and slipped his chains in Hell, Sam found one of his socks in a puddle on the bathroom floor, a new clean sock all on its own, and Sam could only smile and pick it up, glad that this hadn’t been burnt out of his brother. But when Sam pulled out his brand new razor only to find it chock full of what could only be pubic hair, Sam couldn’t help the angry thought that maybe some things could have been burned out.

Weeks after Dean’s return and days after Rubygate, Sam silently opened the door to their motel room with all the skill of a cat-burglar sneaking up on a cat. As the dim red light from the motel sign outside illuminated Dean’s empty bed, and the light from under the bathroom door confirmed that Dean was not asleep, Sam swore silently. The telltale odour of a violently upset stomach hung in the air and Sam half worried if Dean had noticed his absence and half wondered what Dean had eaten that reeked so badly.

Peeling off his sneakers heel first, Sam padded over the bathroom and knocked gently, “Dean?”

“Occupied!”

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes and faked sleepy voice, “You ok?”

“Do I sound ok?”

Sam was desperately trying not to listen to the sounds coming from the bathroom and deadpanned, “Didn’t we talk about eating stuff out of trash cans, Dean?”

The sound of something solid but aerodynamic, probably Sam’s new electric shaver, hitting the door was accompanied by, “Shut up!” in decidedly strained tones. Smiling a little, Sam pulled off his hoodie and headed for his bed. Dean’s was a mess of tangled sheets and rumpled pillows. Stripped down to boxers, Sam crawled into bed and yelled, “Night!”

“Up yours, Sam!”

Sam was drifting in an odd dream about cars with lips who were obsessed with Mick Jagger when he heard the bathroom door creak open, glimpsed a splash of light and then heard the groan of bedsprings and Dean. “Shit, Dean. Close the door.”

A foot slammed door replied but Dean mumbled from his face plant on the bed, “Not another word about shit, Sam. Not one word.” Sam buried his smile into the pillow and tried for true sleep.

Hours, minutes, seconds later, it was difficult to say as Sam blinked at the bright light of the bathroom and the reek of its confined walls as the bathroom door thudded open. “Dean?” Sitting up, skin goosepimpling in the chill, Sam blinked through the blur, trying to see through the stabbing light. Dean though was busy, way too busy, and in between a bout of vomiting, vaguely waved the door closer to closed. “Dude, seriously what did you eat?”

Dean’s reply was gross and directed at the toilet. “You need something?” Sam called.

His answer was the door booted, or barefooted, closed with a loud crash. Apparently what Dean wanted was privacy.  Lying back, Sam listened to his brother retching, swallowed a swell of sympathetic nausea and drifted off.

Sam awoke with a start, and sat up sharply reaching for his .45 on the bedside table. The room was quiet, the sun barely turning the dark into shades of blue. Listening for whatever had roused him, Sam scanned the room and noted that Dean’s bed was still empty. Shoving the covers off, Sam made his way to the bathroom and toed the door open.

There was a stiff early morning breeze from the window, but the room still stank. Dean was curled over himself, clutching his belly, half asleep, half moaning on the bathroom floor. He pried one bloodshot eye open as Sam entered and glared. “Dude.” Sam tried to clear the air, futilely of course.

Dean just shook his head, slowly, “I ain’t moving.”

Sam shrugged, “I’d rather piss outside, thanks.” The querulous eyebrow queried Sam’s presence then, and Sam said, “Thought I heard something.”

“It was me, or rather the thing trying to claw its way outside of me.”  Dean sounded resigned and wrung out. Sam nodded in sympathy, relaxing, lowering his gun. “You want something to eat, burnt toast?”

Dean’s look was incredulity piled on top of despair, “Hell, no. I threw up stuff I ate last year. Hell, I threw up stuff I ate when I was six!” Stepping back, trying for clearer, less foul air, Sam mused, “Oh, then you found my Leggo Indiana Jones that you ate?”

“Nah, that was the swamp monster of the Great Bog,” Dean smiled, and Sam quirked a grin in return. “You should drink something though, stay hydrated.”

“No way,” Dean gasped and curled in a little more, clutching his stomach. “I ain’t ever eating again.”

Sam sighed and left the small off colour room, “You say that now, I bet you only last until lunch.”

A quick trip to the Mini-Mart at the gas station across the street and Sam returned with cold toast, flat soda and Gatorade, lots of Gatorade. Dean hadn’t moved, his grey t-shirt dark with sweat, his face flushed. Sam popped one of the bottles on the floor next to Dean and said, “Sip it. Slowly. Ok?”

The ‘whatever, leave me alone’ was nonverbal and direct. Sam looked down at his miserable brother and sighed, “So I guess this means I’m hunting this fugly on my own, huh?”

A shaky finger rose to point imperiously at Sam’s navel. “You don’t get to use my catchphrase, dude.”

“Copyright infringement aside, you gonna be up for anything, like research?”

The finger was jabbed in his general direction and a miserable voice laughed, “The only research Bob and I are doing is on the contents of my stomach and the back of my eyelids!”

Forehead furrowed, Sam folded his arms and nudged the bottle of Gatorade closer with his foot, “Bob?”

Dean patted the toilet affectionately, before burrowing into his t-shirt, shivering even as he sweated. “You named the toilet, Bob?” Sam said as he strode out into the room and pulled the covers off Dean’s bed.  He plopped the blankets onto Dean, who grunted in gratitude, burrowing anew. “Oh, Bob and I have gotten real close, real intimate. Newest best bud.”

“Ok.” Sam stared down at the pile of blankets that was his brother, his toilet loving brother. “I’m going to head out then. I’ll check in a couple of hours, ok?”

The pile shrugged and Sam nudged the Gatorade again. “Drink it!”

“Bossy little sob aren’t you?” the blankets said and Sam nodded. “Your phone is on the basin.”

There was no response. Sam left the bathroom again, double checked that he had everything and shot one last look at the bathroom. Only the blankets were visible and Sam wondered if he shouldn’t stay. But something was killing the eldest children in town and food poisoning was just ordinary misery. “Bye, Dean!”

As the door slammed behind him, Sam had a brief flash of worry. Dean was sick and first borns were dying. But the dead were kids and teenagers. And Dean ate things best left for the trash. He’d be fine.

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A long pale trembling hand peeked out through the blankets and snagged the Gatorade, dragging it back into the lair of misery. Dean cracked the lid open with his teeth and slowly sucked on the sweet juice. _Please stay down, please_. As cool and friendly as Bob was, Dean was just a little tired of his company. It was so tempting to just gulp the Gatorde but even with the few sips his stomach was churning like a machine.   _Please no_.

There was nothing left, truly and utterly nothing left, of that Dean was one hundred percent certain. He’d being spewing bile for ages, long streams of mucous and liquid. And still his stomach was a mass of writhing complaint, twisting in on itself, determined to expel ‘everything’. A fresh shudder broke through his doze, and Dean moaned, “Not again.”

He barely made it to Bob in time, the thick bile orange flavoured and coloured. But it didn’t stop with the Gatorade and Dean was dry heaving so fast he couldn’t catch his breath. Collapsing into the soft pile of blankets, Dean tried to will his stomach into submission. Slowly, agonisingly the heaves stopped. Shaking, hands covered in sweat, Dean pulled the blankets closer and curled over some more.

The first cramp was an echo of a dry heave, a memory. The second was distant thunder. The third and fourth were so close they met five and six at the backdoor. Dean groaned as the cramps deepened, insistent, painful. “Gah, no.” Dean clutched his stomach and staggered upright, hauling the blankets with him. The cramps nearly beat him to the bed, and he only just made it as wave after wave of gut wrenching spasms ripped through him. Twisting in on himself, buried in the bed, hiding from the pain that was at his very centre, Dean moaned to himself. He should get up and raid the first aid kit, get something, anything.

But when it started to burn, the pain stabbing and relentless, Dean could only lie there and cry.

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Sam was getting a very bad feeling. The kind of feeling you got when things weren’t adding up but you had an idea it was spelling trouble. The kids had all died the same way. The coroner, more used to drunken brawls gone wrong and the odd hit and run was at a loss and beside himself with worry.

4 kids under twelve, one fourteen year old. All dead, with no visible sign of trauma. Except their insides were gone. Completely and utterly gone. Everything from heart, lungs, stomach, liver, intestines, you name it. Gone. No cuts, no stitches, no visible trauma. Just gone, ripped out.

And the families had very little in common besides living in the same town and the victims being the eldest child. Sam trotted back to the Impala, a burr of worry under his collar, itching and unpleasant. There were no signs of hex bags, or spellwork. No EMF, no sulphur, no portents. It was creepy and all Sam could really see was Dean curled up on the floor of the bathroom.

Next stop was the first victim’s family but Sam wanted to stop by and check on Dean. The Coroner and Library had taken longer than expected, especially the weirdness of the cause of death. Dean wasn’t answering his phone, but Sam didn’t really expect him too.

Only he did, even it was just to hear a grumpy, ‘Le’me’lone.’

It was after eleven by the time Sam pulled up to the motel, the passenger side of the Impala full of shopping bags. He’d bought everything you could need for stomach issues and more. The man behind the counter at the pharmacy had given him a long, considering look but Sam was going in prepared.

The door closed behind him with soft click. The roomwas dark, curtains still drawn. The air was thick with the smell of vomit and shit and Dean was an unmoving lump on the bed. Sam quietly put the bags down on the wobbly table and crossed the room quietly. He pulled off his jacket, tossing it onto his bed and sat down on Dean’s.

“Dean?”

There was a groan, and the blankets moved. Sam was just about the reach out and pull the blankets aside when Dean’s hand snaked out and grabbed his arm. His grip was painfully tight, digging into the bones of Sam’s wrist. His palm was cold and clammy, and even as he tightened his grip, Sam could feel the trembling.

“Dean?”

“Hurts.”

Sam pulled the blankets away with his free hand and winced at how pale and sweaty Dean was. He looked like shit, eyes dark and bruised, flushed and wet with sweat. “Hurts.”

“Kay, kay, I’ve got loads of supplies. You need something for the pain?” Dean’s nod was sharp and urgent, an almost whimper escaping. Sam tried to get up, but Dean hadn’t let go. “Dude.” Dean was shaking his head, pulling at the blankets.

“Piss.”

“Oh, ok.”

Sam helped Dean to his feet, steadying him when he nearly fell over. Dean stared at the walk to the bathroom like it was a mile long and Sam just took him by the elbow and assisted him into the bathroom. Sam fully expected Dean to grouse him out and demand that he could handle it on his own, but Dean only let go of Sam when they reached the toilet.

One shaky hand reached out to prop himself up, a knee bent into the bowl, but Sam stuck around as Dean looked as steady as one legged stool. Dean managed to pull down his boxers and Sam looked away, as Dean began to pee. He figured he’d open a few windows and the curtains and shake out some of the smell of illness. Dean’s hiss of pain automatically made Sam turn around, as did the gasp of surprise.

A long thin stream of red was falling into the bowl, and Sam cursed, “Shit, man. How long have you been pissing blood?”

“Since now,” Dean moaned, leaning into Sam. In the fumble to stay standing, Dean somehow got an arm around Sam’s neck, and was hardly holding up his own weight. He got his boxers up without help but Sam had to practically drag him back to bed. Dean groaned as he collapsed on the bed, going fetal automatically.

“I know you don’t want them, but you need fluids, Dean. Something for the pain.”

Dean shook his head, hair spiked with sweat, eyes closed, “Give me a moment. Just now.”

Sighing, Sam stared at him, contemplating his options, weighing the odds. “I’ve got a drip, just in case.” The handwave was acceptance and wait. Sam pulled up the blankets again and left Dean to drowse, unhappily.

Pushing the supplies to one side, Sam booted up his laptop. There was research to do, and Bobby to call. The families could wait ‘til tomorrow.

Sam slowly ate a stale sandwich as he clicked through websites, looking for the same symptoms. Dean would occasionally twitch or moan. Twice Sam offered painkillers and both times Dean shook his head violently. Sam was giving Dean another half hour and then sticking a needle in him and getting some fluids in.

It was a small annotation on a longwinded thesis pages deep in a university website. It made the hairs on Sam’s arms stand on end. It was a reference to an obscure book and an even more obscure oral history. The thing was Sam had that book. It was one of the few that had survived Dean’s deal and his fury at his own failure. It was in the Impala and it was a bad bad book to be referencing. Bad in the sense that it had dark, terrible tales of long forgotten things that crept and slunk in and out of horror stories.

Sam bolted out of the door, squinting at the sunlight of the afternoon, momentarily startled that it was still day. The trunk flipped open with an unoiled creak and Sam dug through the piles of books furiously. There.

Slamming the trunk shut, Sam ran back inside, closely the door quietly. Dean was writhing a little, moaning consistently, brokenly. Giving his brother a deeply worried glance, Sam flipped through the book, trying to find the page he’d read a year ago, and passed over because it held nothing about breaking deals or killing demons. By the time Sam found the page, Dean had buried his face into the bed, and was rocking back and forth in pain. The colour drained from Sam’s face as he read and before he’d even finished the relevant paragraph, he was up and running for Dean.

“Dean, Dean!”

Dean was a mass of clenched, bunched muscles, his entire focus on the screaming pain in his stomach. His breathing was sharp and rapid, almost to the point of hyperventilation and he refused to uncurl at Sam’s insistent touch. “Come on, Dean. I need to see.”

There wasn’t really time to mess around, so Sam gently pulled Dean’s arms away from his torso, which was scarily easy. Trying to get him to lay flat though was less easy, but Sam was gentle in his persuasion, a soft litany of meaningless words coaxing Dean out. “Come on, man, half a second, just have to look, then nice drugs, awesome drugs.”

Finally, Dean was flat enough for Sam’s liking, his exhaustion shocking though. Sam batted away Dean’s hands which kept on trying to cover his stomach and said, “Lay still, Dean. Please.”

“Kay.”

Sam lifted the bottom of Dean’s drenched t-shirt and pulled up the material exposing a flat stomach. Dean managed a look of ‘what the hell?’ but swallowed against the surging nausea and cramps. Sam just waited though, desperate to be wrong, praying like he hadn’t in a year that he was wrong. He stared at Dean’s stomach, watched the flinch and tremble, the flutter of his pulse in his throat. Smooth uninterrupted skin, healed and perfect after months in a grave. Dean was swallowing like crazy, trying not to give in, to curl up and just as Sam was about to sigh in relief, notch this up to a bad taco, or burger, he saw it.

Dean did too and he went even paler, gagging in horror. There was movement, under the skin, like a fin disturbing water but not breaking the surface. A surge, a tendril of very not natural movement.

“Shit.” Dean’s voice shook and he reflexively reached out but Sam stopped him, waiting. There it was again, different place, lower, longer and Sam felt his own gag reflex kick. “Shit!” he agreed and reached out with Dean to ‘feel’.

Dean’s stomach was hard, and would probably be distended if there was anything in it, but it felt oh so very wrong. “Sam.” The level of fear in Dean’s voice matched Sam’s surging heart, which was climbing into his throat. “Get it out!”

“I will, Dean. I will, just..”

Just what? Sam had no idea, no clue on how to get it out, he just knew what it was. Something old, something supposed to be long gone. Something that wrapped itself around every organ and ripped them out through the mouth when it was ready to leave. Something that was going to kill Dean.

Launching himself off the bed, Sam picked up the book and turned the pages furiously. There had to be a cure, something. Dean meanwhile stared down at his stomach, sick horror warring with fear and he was cautiously running his hand over his stomach, feeling for ridges and curves. And when it moved again, Dean bent over the bed and hurled for all he was worth, suddenly desperate it get it out.

There was not even bile this time, and he couldn’t help the sob that escaped him as fresh cramps hit, all centred around the movement. It wasn’t all cramps, not anymore, not when he could feel it move now, not just his imagination.

“Sam.”

Sam didn’t look up, paging back and forth through the book, floored that there was no answer, no cure, no mention of anything.

“Sam!”

Sam stared at his phone, wondering if Bobby would know, if there were books in Bobby’s house about the living legend that was behind the final plague in Egypt, the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and half a dozen other tales of first born children dying. It took children quick, in the night. Adults though, that was rare, a challenge.

“Sam!”

Dean’s scream was panic and anger and Sam looked up just in time to see Dean rolling for his knife, the one he’d knocked to the floor. And as fast as Sam was, he almost wasn’t fast enough as Dean grabbed the knife and flipped the blade, poised to strike. Sam caught the blow with the point of the blade pricking Dean’s stomach and he struggled to pry the knife out of his hand. “No, Dean, no.”

“Get it out, Sam, Get it out!” Dean was still trying to stab himself, kill the thing moving inside him but Sam managed to pull the knife away, Dean scrambling to regain it. “Dean! I’ll get it out, just wait, wait!”

There was no waiting, not when Dean could feel the cramps moving up, his heart quickening, his breathing wheezy. His kick caught Sam off guard, but it lacked strength and Sam suddenly had his hands full, Dean trying to get loose, get the knife. It wasn’t hard to pin him, but it was hard doing so without planting a knee in his stomach, so Sam used his bulk and weight to trap Dean’s legs, his arms held awkwardly. “Dean, please, calm down, calm down!”

Dean didn’t really have the strength to fight for long, his stomach roiling and heaving and eventually he gave up, and leant forward, dry retching. Sam held on, tangled in the bedclothes and Dean, and as his brother retched and retched, the muscles of his stomach moved unnaturally, bulges and bumps appearing.

They were running out of time.

Sam let go, and Dean collapsed back, but Sam wasn’t taking any chances. He quickly tore strips off the bottom sheet and watched Dean closely. His brother was watching him, a dawning realisation of certainty making him shake his head. ‘No Sam.’

Dean fought of course, but Sam was quick and efficient, securing one wrist and then the next to the handy head board. “You can’t kill it like that, Dean. I’ll get it out, I promise.”  Dean nodded, gulping and he hissed, “Now!”

Sam ran back to the book, ran a quick search online and scanned both web and paper pages furiously. On the bed, flat on his back, Dean moaned, turning and twisting, trying to ease the pain. In the end, Sam took a logical leap, weighed his options and took a long serious look at Dean. Dean was shaking, drenched in sweat, moaning constantly and Sam made a snap decision.

The creature was associated with cursed places. Who had cursed the town remained a mystery, but it was a thing of magic and demons, a bargain struck for revenge. And there were just certain things that were cure alls for magic and demons. Holy water. Salt. Sage. Ruby had shown him a cleansing potion once, and if Sam made it with holy water and extra salt, sage... maybe. Maybe. The basics for the old and ancient.

By the time the potion, mixture was ready, Dean was writhing against the restraints, straining to be free, stomach visibly hard and distended. Sam hurried over with three Gatorade bottles of the mixture and sat down next to Dean. He tried to catch Dean’s eyes, but Dean was feverish and muttering even as he fought. “Man, I hope this works.”

Reaching out for Dean’s chin, Sam turned his face towards him and said, “Open up, Dean. Come on.”

Vaguely, Dean did so, eyes rolling around, dancing from Sam to the corners of the room. Sam tipped the mixture into Dean’s mouth, watched him swallow a mouthful but just as he was about to pour more, Dean twisted on himself and hurled.

The water sprayed across the bed and Sam waited for Dean stop heaving before trying again. And again. And again. The bottle was half empty, and the bed soaked, Dean glaring at Sam with such baleful pain that it made his own stomach lurch.

“Shit.” Sam stood, weighed his options and cursed again. There was an intubation kit in the first aid box. A last resort for desperate times, something he bought when Dean’s deal was looming and anything that could save a life or save Dean seemed like a good idea.

The kit looked small and delicate in his hands, and oh so intrusive. But there was no time. As the bed sank beneath him, Sam grabbed Dean’s chin, moving his neck into position. “Sorry, man.” Dean’s eyes grew wide when he saw the tube, and he started shaking but Sam was swift. The angle was wrong, and he wasn’t aiming for the lungs, so Sam aimed more for the oesophagus. It wasn’t the right kind of tube and it wasn’t designed for this, but the moment it was in place, Sam tipped the bottle of watery potion in to the open end and watched Dean’s throat move as the liquid went in.

It stayed down longer this time and Sam had to quickly yank the tube out, quickly but carefully as Dean twisted to spew this lot out. There was brownish muck in the water, and the heaves went on for longer. Taking this as a good sign, Sam pried Dean’s mouth again and readied the tube. Dean was shaking his head, not making it easy. Sam knelt on the bed, his knee pressed against Dean’s side to get a better angle.

Using both hands to tip Dean’s head back, and open the throat, Sam slipped the tube in, ignoring Dean’s moan of protest. The last of the bottle went in and before Dean could start heaving, Sam withdrew the tube and closed Dean’s mouth, his hand covering lips and chin, waiting.

Dean’s eyes were bright with fever, green and startling and man he was pissed. As he bucked and writhed, Sam waited for the tell tale twitch and then moved his hand and let Dean twist to vomit. This time was the worst yet and Sam quickly freed one hand so that Dean could aim over the side of the bed. Long streams of brown filth were emerging, leaving trails down Dean’s chin. Dean gagged and choked, spat like a sailor and then rolled back with a choked off scream. Sam stared at Dean’s stomach which was writhing all on its own and he knew he had it right. He had to have.

With one arm free, Dean wasn’t having any more, so Sam quickly scrambled onto the bed and straddled Dean, careful not to actually sit on him. Dean was wheezing and moaning, and Sam could hear a stream of ‘no, no, no, no’ but he ruthlessly grabbed Dean’s chin again. The tube was slick with mucous and salvia, so it went in quick but Dean was arching against him trying to buck him off. Sam tipped most of the second bottle in, waited for the twitch and gag and let Dean roll over to spew his guts out. The muck and slime was darker, almost black and Dean was crying, long tear tracks coursing down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat.

The glops and puddles of black twitched on their own before going still, but Dean just lay on his side, exhausted, coughing weakly. Sam ran a swift hand over Dean’s stomach, noting his hiss of pain, but it felt less hard, less tense. For a moment, he let his hand stay there, splayed over the muscles, waiting for the thing to move. It did, a weak twitch and Sam was turning Dean back onto his back.

Dean blinked back tears, his mouth covered in black slime. As Sam tipped his head back, Dean gasped, “Just kill me, please...”

“No.” Sam slipped the tube past Dean’s teeth, pressing down his tongue, to the juncture of trachea and oesophagus and pushed into the oesophagus. The rest of the second bottle trickled down the tube and  Dean bucked, his knee catching Sam in the small of the back, almost knocking him off. Some of the potion trickled onto Dean’s chin and the ooze hissed and steamed as the holy water hit it.

Smooth, far too practiced, Sam took out the tube, held Dean’s mouth closed, ignored the angry tears, the tight, white knuckled fist in the restraint, the straining elbow beneath his knee. Five, four, three. On three Dean gagged and Sam twisted off him, standing up and let Dean curl all the way over, hurling like his life depended on it. Which it did.

There was less brown, more black, but it was stringy and watered down. Sam wiped his own forehead, and stalked into the bathroom, wetting a facecloth. Dean’s heaving shoulders were all that was visible from the bathroom and Sam trotted over, and sat on his bed. The floor between the beds was a mess of vile black and brown. Avoiding it, Sam ran the cloth over Dean’s face, wiping away the remnants of the bile.

Dean was wrecked, shaking and so dehydrated he was barely sweating anymore. His t-shirt was still hitched up and Sam watched the skin over Dean’s stomach carefully as he cleaned Dean’s face.

“No more,” Dean wheezed. Sam didn’t even try meet his eyes as he said, “Last one.”

“No, no, no, no.”

“It should be gone, I just have to be sure.”

Dean didn’t even really fight Sam, but his glare promised retribution, severe and lethal. Not taking any chances, Sam used the tube one last time, and poured the mixture slowly, carefully, leaving only a third of the bottle. Dean choked and gagged, writhed and twisted, a shadow of the fury of before. The gag reflex was slower to come, but Dean’s moan of pain was the worst yet. Sam tossed the tube away as Dean coughed and spewed. It was only water now, a little grey, brackish. It took ages for Dean to stop heaving and eventually Sam had to gently turn Dean over, Dean already shaking his head in denial.

“Just wait, let’s just ...”

 The sudden stillness was eerie after the rush and of surge of adrenalin. Sam’s hands were shaking, a shadow of Dean whose chest was shaking so hard, he looked like he’d run a mile, hard. As they waited, watched Dean’s stomach, the reality of the real world sank in. It was still afternoon, maybe early evening. The sun was setting, the sound of traffic on the road, people going home. It felt like it had been hours, years, days, but it was not. Dean’s eyes were fluttering closed with exhaustion, and Sam’s were intent, fixed. There was nothing.

No movement, no twitches, no bumps. Just plain, flat stomach. Just Dean. By the time Sam was satisfied that it was over, he had ran several long, searching but oh so gentle checks, his hand trembling as it hovered over Dean’s stomach. It was only when he heard Dean’s deep exhale, an exhalation of deep sleep that Sam relaxed. Finally he looked at Dean, and had to admit he looked better... well less worse.

There was no time to rest though. Sam slipped one arm under Dean’s shoulders, the other under his knees and picked him up. Dean was damn heavy, but the trip was short, just to Sam’s bed and cleanish sheets. Dean curled over, like it was instinct now and Sam quickly brought the IV tube and bag of saline.  Inserting the IV was tricky because his hands were shaking so much, but he managed. Hooking the bag to the bed post, Sam sat for moment, watching Dean breathe.

Sam dumped the soaked sheets and torn up piece of carpet in the dumpster outside the motel. He tossed in a dosing of gasoline and lit the materials on fire. The fire was sluggish and wet, but Sam watched it long enough to be satisfied and then slammed the dumpster lid down. He’d check on the fire later.

The room smelled better, lighter. Dean was asleep, completely still, exhausted to the point of immobility. Sam dumped a load of fresh linen from housekeeping onto ‘his’ bed and sat down, feeling like he’d ran a marathon himself. Once the bathroom was clean and all signs of Dean’s ordeal gone, Sam checked the IV, woke Dean up long enough to sip on Gatorade, which Dean was out of it enough not to fight and then ate a cold, tasteless dinner.

He still had to find out who or what had cursed the town, and Dean. Who was after the first born within the town limits. But right now, Sam was beat. So he made the bed, ignored the lingering smell and passed out.

He woke up to check on Dean, give him water and Gatorade. And as dawn pricked the horizon, Sam blinked into the darkness, listening to the deep, even breaths across the room. When he came out of the shower, Dean was awake, and looking like roadkill.

“Hey.”

Dean nodded, blinked slowly. “Got to get some food in you. Soup or something.”

“Noodles.”

“Kay.”

Sam pulled on his coat, shoved the keys in his pocket and turned to leave. “Sam?”

Dean needed a shower, badly. Hell he needed a dozen good meals and a day’s worth of sleep, but as Sam sank down on to the bed, all he could really think was, ‘He’s ok, he’s ok.’ “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome,..”

But Dean wasn’t done, “You do that to me again and I will shoot you. In the ass.”

Sam nodded, swallowed not sure if he wanted to smile or cry. “Ok.”

“With a real gun. And actual bullets.”

Sam snorted and stood. “You want Ramen?”

“Not salt rounds or buckshot. Real, honest to god bullets.”

Taking that as a yes, Sam opened the door and only just caught the last rejoinder, “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam ignored his shaking hands and the breathy catch to his voice as he whispered, “Anytime.”

*

Fin


End file.
